


After Hours

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is the Best PA, Anthea-centric, BAMF Anthea, Bittersweet, Established Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, F/M, Married Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Married Couple, POV Anthea, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in the midst of trying to get answers out of Moran about Moriarty, Anthea takes time to remind Mycroft that they have a life outside of their work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chitarra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chitarra/gifts).



> So this was an answer to a prompt that I got from **applebytezfood** that went " _Fluff prompt: Anthea reminds Mycroft that she is his wife and not his PA after hours. The circumstances are completely up to you,_ " except it's not _quite_ as fluffy as I think my prompter might have hoped for. This prompt was claimed by **Chitarra** in my Non-Sherlolly Fic Prompt Spring Cleaning Claim, who _also_ picked the sentence starter from the list [](http://penaltywaltz.tumblr.com/post/139995233693/writing-prompts) which starts the fic.

She stepped on his hand, his fingers cracking under the pressure, “Where is he?”

“Where is who?” Moran got out, bearing up well under the duress. She knew he would; soft as he appeared, he _was_ a master assassin, after all. Well, she appeared soft as well, so…appearances could be quite deceiving. She knew that well.

“You know who,” she said, applying a bit more pressure on the phalanges in particular. She’d already broken his pinkie under the ball of her foot. If she applied just a _bit_ more pressure, she could break two more fingers and possibly cause irreparable damage. At least this wasn’t his writing hand. He should be thankful for that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He winced as she exerted the pressure. Oh, he knew damn well what she was talking about. Even prisoners were allowed a telly, and when Moriarty’s broadcast had gone live Moran had seen it. So he knew. The question was, did he know the mastermind behind it? Oh, they knew well enough it wasn’t _actually_ James Moriarty. To be quite honest, they hadn’t needed Sherlock’s little overdose stunt to get the idea that the man claiming to be James Moriarty that Mycroft had tortured may not be the real one; it had been an idea festering in her husband’s head the entire time his baby brother had been off taking care of things.

An idea that had been coming more and more to fruition the more they had been having “chats” with their tight-lipped guest, who had given single word answers while he had leered at her as she waited in the corner.

Which had led to today. Yesterday her idiot of a brother-in-law had nearly overdosed, either to prove a point or to escape the one-way death sentence, she wasn’t _entirely_ sure, but either way, she and her husband had had enough. The tables were turning; the script was going to be flipped. They were going to get answers, one way or another.

Except, unfortunately, she realized as she glanced at her watch, she was off the clock.

She eased her heel off Moran’s hand and stalked towards the door. “Tomorrow,” she said, opening the door.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, sitting up and cradling his hand, glaring daggers at her. She turned and ignored him then, opening the door and shutting it swiftly behind her. It was almost an…oxymoron, perhaps? It was a dire situation, but it put her in a rather euphoric mood. It wasn’t often she was allowed to get her hands dirty. Usually she was meant to stay in the shadows, observe and take notes. Getting her hands dirty got her blood flowing. Now she could see why there were times the others who held her same position enjoyed it when given the chance, rare as it was.

She made her way to the observation room, unsurprised to find Mycroft was the sole occupant there. He was leaning back in the chair, his attention focused solely on the screens in front of him. “You should finish the job,” he said. 

“You know our agreement,” she said. “During work hours I’m your PA. I do your bidding as Her Majesty wants. But when work hours are over, I’m your wife. Then I take you home and we do each other’s bidding to mutually satisfactory goals.”

It took him a moment to pull his attention away from the screen, and then he looked at her. He seemed to have aged ten years in a day. She knew every time his brother did something idiotic it aged him but all of this, from Christmas Day to now…she worried she might never get the man she loved back completely, and oh, how she wanted that, how she desperately wanted that. 

She reached behind her and locked the door to the room. It was breaking protocol but sod protocol; technically their marriage was against protocol but they’d gotten a special dispensation from the queen to allow it; she had a soft spot for the two of them and had been quite pleased by it. In fact, the letter from Her Majesty congratulating them on their nuptials was framed and hanging in their shared study. Every once in a while she would go stare at it in amazement, that she had gotten so lucky. She moved over to him and nudged his chair back, and when he obliged she dropped in his lap, curling into him. After a moment he wrapped his arms around her, resting his cheek against the top of her head “What would I do without you, Andrea?” he asked.

“Be miserable,” she said. “Be lonely and sad. Work yourself into an early grave. Have no pleasures in life.”

“You’re right,” he said, beginning to stroke her hair back. “Thank you for giving me those things.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Mycroft. It will always be my pleasure.” She let him sit there, stroking her hair back for a time, content to do that until he stopped, and then she lifted her head up and looked at him for a moment before framing his face in her hands and leaning in to kiss him softly. “Let’s go home,” she said when she pulled away, running her thumbs over his cheekbones.

He nodded, and when she got up off his lap and stood he stood moments later and reached for her hand, entwining his fingers in hers. She knew no one would see them hold hands while they were in the building, and before they left their hands would be unentwined, only to be clasped together again in the car on their way back to his home, but for now it was a nice and comforting gesture between husband and wife. Tomorrow they would continue their quest for answers by any means necessary but tonight…tonight they would find comfort in each other, find strength in each other, and they would carry that strength over to the next day, when they would need it the most.


End file.
